And miles away, Nathan Hale sits in his observation room, listening to my silence, absorbing my unspoken pain like a prayer meant only for him.
Hearing every word. Knowing every fear.
Watching me break.
And preparing to be there when I finally shatter completely.
Chapter 10 - Nathan
Senator Morrison's hands shake as he signs the zoning approval form.
I watch from across his desk, a glass of scotch in my hand, my presence filling his office like a dark promise. The rest of the building emptied hours ago. He wanted privacy for this particular piece of corruption.
Smart man.
The senator pauses, pen hovering over the signature line, and I can see the internal debate playing out across his sweating face. His conscience warring with his survival instinct.
"I could lose everything," he says, his voice barely a whisper.
"You already have." I take a sip of my scotch, letting the burn ground me. "The only question is whether you lose it publicly or privately. Sign the form, Senator."
Survival wins. It always does.
He scrawls his signature across the bottom and sets down the pen like it weighs a thousand pounds. Then he reaches for the bottle in his desk drawer—cheap whiskey, the kind that burns—and pours himself three fingers with shaking hands.
I stand, buttoning my suit jacket. "The photographs will be destroyed within the hour. As long as you remember our conversation."
"I'll remember," he says hollowly, not meeting my eyes.
"Good." I move toward the door, then pause. "Oh, and Senator? Don't make me come back."
I leave him there to drink himself into oblivion, his usefulness to me finished. The zoning variance for 428 West 42nd Street is now approved. Eve's building will pass every inspection, receive every upgrade, become the perfect workspace for her designs. And she'll never know that a senator committed career suicide to make it happen.
That's how I work. Invisible threads pulling the world into the shape I need.
***
The memory hits me as I'm driving home, triggered by nothing and everything.
I'm fifteen years old, and I can taste blood in my mouth.
My father's fist connects with my jaw again, and I go down hard on the kitchen floor. The linoleum is cold against my cheek, sticky with something I don't want to identify. The whiskey bottle sits on the counter, half-empty. It's always half-empty.
"You think you're better than me?" His voice is slurred, thick with rage and alcohol. "You think because you get good grades, because that Sinclair family lets you eat at their table, you're something special?"
I don't answer. Answering only makes it worse.
His boot catches me in the ribs, and I curl into myself, trying to protect my stomach, my face. The pain is white-hot and familiar. This isn't the first time. Won't be the last.
"Look at you. Pathetic. Just like your mother."
I hear her footsteps then, coming down the stairs. Hope flares in my chest—stupid, desperate hope that maybe this time she'll stop him. That maybe this time she'll choose me over him.
She appears in the doorway, her hair in curlers, her robe pulled tight. Her eyes land on me, on the blood, on my father standing over me with his fists still clenched.
For a heartbeat, our eyes meet. I see recognition there. Knowledge of what's happening. What's always been happening.
Then she turns around and walks back upstairs.
